Trading Standards

She conjures a list
on the edge of my bed,
of things I did wrong,
didn’t do or never said.

A trading standards officer
of her own heart,
betrothed elsewhere from the start.
Waiting to be traded
as a stranger’s wife,
she hitched a ride on
my unarranged life
for the few bumpy turns ahead.
All but pillow talk was left unsaid.

On dance floors, always wilder
than the other guys,
I see needles in the gemstones
of my lover’s eyes.
She whispers softly there are
no good goodbyes.
My hands fall from the air,
shit-bird of paradise.